


Peter Parker, P.I.

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Jessica Jones (TV), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty Peter at first, Attempts at hacker language, Dark themes regarding P.I. cases, Featuring the AU no one asked for, Grown-up Spider-Man, Hurt/Comfort, Jessica Jones is a kickass P.I. and a semi-reasonable mentor, M/M, Manhunt/tracking, Occasional British spelling - sorry :(, Peter Parker Private Investigator, Peter is 20-somethin, Private Investigators, Vengeful Peter Parker, Very naughty language, Wade Wilson does not give a flying f, Wade is immortally in that weird not quite half-thirty but def not in his twenties age bracket, Yellow and White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: When Uncle Ben was gunned down in the street, Peter discovered that he got better results with the law bybeingthe law. Turns out, Peter's pretty good at stalking.After taking down the creep that hurt Uncle Ben, Peter manages to wrangle a job as an apprentice for an alcoholic Private Eye, Jessica Jones. And hey, at the end of the day, things are going pretty well for Spider, mysterious mutant collecting intel for PI Jones and putting the bad guys behind bars.That is, until a disgruntled mark calls a hit on Peter and the universe thrusts a loud-mouthed mercenary onto his trail, flipping Peter's world upside down.No prior knowledge of Jessica Jones required. Let me know what you think :)





	1. The Making of A Private Investigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter gets a job and discovers a new found fear of Hello Kitty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! So, fair warning, I genuinely have embarrassingly limited knowledge of the Spider-man, Deadpool & Jessica Jones source material other than the movie/TV-verse and that which I have researched on Tumblr and Wikipedia and I apologise if I've bastardised the hell out of everything. So, really, I have no business writing this ship but oh my god I seriously cannot stop. Please do leave a comment if you notice anything wrong or out of line with the source material; I'm always willing to update chapters to better reflect the characters and story line! I have written a few chapters now and will update slowly. Hope you enjoy :)

Peter stared blankly at the sight before him. Hysteria bubbled up his throat like bile, burning burning _and burning._ He dropped the stolen bottle of milk and time slowed to a crawl. Peter darted forward to the bloody, prone frame of his uncle, his gentle, kind, intelligent, genuine friend. Peter dropped to his knees in front of the wheezing man, a large hand covering a rapidly spreading blossom of red on his chest. The violent colour filled Peter’s vision, his breath catching in his throat as the horror was suddenly swept aside by pure, unadulterated rage. 

Peter began to rise to his feet, ready to find that _son of a bitch_ and rip him limb from limb. To disembowel the monster that dared to harm Uncle Ben. His furious rise was immediately stopped by the soft touch of a worn hand, covered in callouses from a lifetime of work.

“P-Peter,” Uncle Ben spluttered, brown eyes wide and glazed, as he gripped Peter’s smaller hand. “Please, stay –”

“Of course, Uncle Ben, don’t speak the ambulance is on its way –” Peter tried to say, words choking in his throat.

And then Uncle Ben was speaking, rushing the words out as if they were his last, until suddenly they were. The man’s eyes closed slowly, head tilting to the side, and suddenly Peter was alone. Surrounded by a crowd, sirens wailing, people screaming, and Peter was completely and utterly _alone_.

* * *

“ _With great power comes great responsibility_.”

Peter awoke with a jolt, body covered in a cold sweat and the words of his uncle ringing loudly in his ear. Peter sobbed dryly, a lump the size of a baseball stuck in his throat. A tingling prickled his ear and he turned his head sharply to the door of his bedroom, listening intently.

A soft cry reached his enhanced hearing and Peter immediately stood, quietly padding out of the small room and towards his aunt’s. Pausing in front of the white washed door, Peter hovered indecisively for a moment before steeling himself. He pushed the door open quietly and watched the shadowed form of his aunt tremble in the tangled sheets of the bed. She looked so small, cold and alone.

Peter joined her in the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around his aunt and held her close. May turned and pressed her head into the crook of his neck, still fast asleep, and Peter held her with a trembling hand on her neck. He lay like that for hours until the sun rose, the cold white of the early sunrise washing the room.

Peter finally decided what, exactly, he was going to do. After all, great power comes with great responsibility.

* * *

Peter Parker had been doing private investigations since he was fifteen years old. The profession fell into his lap as he sat across a worn dining room table in Aunt May’s house, his aunt’s cold, small hand gripping his own as the police detective across the expanse of the table explained that there was nothing more the police could do, no one was coming up with the description Peter had provided, and that they were waiting on some leads _. Be patient_ , he said, as Peter and May trembled.

Uncle Ben’s murderer had disappeared into the night.

It took Peter six weeks, cutting into his school hours, a cheap digital camera gifted to him a couple Christmases ago, and a _lot_ of stalking. Turns out, the asshole in the dark shades was well known amongst the homeless, who were more than happy to chat with the young boy over a dinner at a greasy spoon. Peter’s young face didn’t disturb the poor, even when he prowled the streets in the dead of night, and Peter realised that there were more underage runaways and homeless children than he thought. It made his stomach clench in dark rage.

Peter eventually moved after weeks of chasing the shaded man, photographing his convenience store hold-ups with precision and carefully tracking the gun in the shaking man’s hands. Any drug the man could get his hands on, he would take. Peter snapped candid photos of heroin trading hands, of a young couple being held up at gunpoint in a dark alley. Never interfering, never stopping.

Peter printed off the photos at a 24 hour print shop at the dead of night, carefully cataloguing and noting each movement of the shaded man for the last month and a half on the back of each photograph. He wrote a thorough report, using the same format of his English essays and labs. After carefully bundling the documents, and grateful the weather was cold enough to get away with wearing gloves the entire time in the brightly illuminated store to avoid leaving his fingerprints everywhere, Peter went after Mr. Shades. Or, as he found out in his research, Mr. Frank McGunn, lifelong drug runner with a history of violent crime.

“ _No leads_ ,” Peter had scoffed to himself. “ _No one matching the description_.”

After donning a ski mask, and perhaps beating the perp a little harder than he needed to, Peter left the man tied to a light pole in Central Park with the gun that shot Uncle Bed stuffed in the crying older man’s mouth and tied around his head with a string, barrel pointing at the back of his throat, and the dossier stapled to his chest.

The cops picked the perp up on an anonymous call.

Peter snapped the burner phone’s SIM, left it in a dumpster outside a fast-food joint, and walked home.

After that, Peter didn’t go back to school. He hounded a couple private investigators in Queens and Brooklyn for a cash job before he was pointed in the direction of Manhattan, an _Alias Investigations_ card pressed in his hands. He had been assured that the owner, Jones, was the only immoral enough P.I. in the entire city to hire a kid (which Peter seriously doubted and figured he was sent as a joke).

But Jones, who turned out to be a foul-mouthed alcoholic _and_ a kickass private eye, did end up giving him a couple shitty jobs, which Peter suspected had to do with keeping him busy so he couldn’t pester her. When it turned out that Peter knew his way around a camera and was able to take a ridiculous number of damning photos from angles that Jones couldn’t rationalise, he was given a full-time job.

Five years later, Peter now took on most of the smaller Alias Investigations cases while Jones entertained herself with the bigger, nastier supervillain plots. As he worked on commission (God forbid actually getting more than a couple crinkled bills out of Jones’ mutant strong hands), Peter kept himself mostly busy with coding and selling spyware online. He even found a way to slip into the New York Police Department database on a semi-regular basis, which proved ever-useful in the P.I. business.

No wonder Jones kept him around. Or, rather, didn’t kick him out.

* * *

It was close to three in the morning and quite possibly the quietest hour of the day in New York, which didn't mean much in the noisy city. The occasional drunk burst out of a bar and disrupted the night, either spilling into a waiting cab or loudly bustling down the road, scattering the street dwellers and homeless like bowling pins. Peter watched from his perch on a metal fire escape, twelve stories into the sky and shrouded in darkness.

A chorus of taxis honked loudly as a drunk in Versace grabbed a scantily dressed woman and tugged her into the street, her high-pitched false laughter piercing the air. Peter raised his DSLR and carefully aligned the viewfinder against his left eye, watching silently and studying the man’s face.

It was his mark. An absurdly wealthy trust fund baby in his mid-thirties, married to a Miss Delaware from a decade ago. The conversation with the wife still rang in his ears. 

“ _He’s taking girls out, I know it! Sleeping with them and contracting all sorts of diseases!”_

_“There’s not much I can do about a cheating spouse, miss. Besides, are you sure you want to know? Sometimes it’s worse to see than you think.”_

_“I need photos, dammit. We have a prenup and if he’s cheating on me, the bastard’s fucked.”_

_“I don’t normally do the bitter spouse act. Down the road is Burdge; he’ll take on any job and decently. Candid shots, timeframes, a dossier, recommendations for a vicious lawyer, the lot.”_

_“It’s not just the cheating.”_

_“Alright, well I need to know what I’m looking for -_ ”

“ _Listen, kid, and Jesus you’re just a kid, aren’t you? Look barely a day over twenty.”_

_“Alright, lady, I’ve got other cases and, as I’ve told you, cheating isn’t my specialty -_ ”

_“He has AIDS.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“He has AIDS. Contracted it somewhere down the line. Gave it to me. That’s how I know he was cheating. And listen, I have no problem against people with AIDS, but the fucker knows. I_ know _he knows, cause he’s been taking some pills that he thinks I don’t know about and he’s got this weird… Insistence about him about not wearing condoms, especially of late._

_“Kid, I sure as hell wasn’t a virginal princess when we met. I had my fair share of sleeping around before we married. But I know I was clean. I tested myself back in ’08, two years into dating him. And I’ve stayed true. I… I think he’s spreading it, too. Listen, I don’t have any fucking sympathy for him or his whores. But I can’t handle it, thinking he’s out there taking away a girl’s future. I was ready for a family, you know? Fuck, that’s what I thought he_ meant _when he was refusing to wrap it. And you know what?  I could handle cheating, if the fucking idiot ever wore a goddamn condom. But now I’ve got ten good years in me, if the meds hold and those trials come through, and I want to see him_ ruined.”

Peter pressed his finger down gently and the camera _clunck_ ’d satisfyingly. He carefully swung his camera around his body and scaled the building, using only the tips of his fingers and the edges of his toes. He silently crept along the rooftops, keeping a sharp eye on the uproariously laughing monster in the street as he leant against the street girl, barely in her twenties, and pushed her into a cab.

Ruined, Peter thought to himself. _Ruined_ , he could do.

* * *

“You know they’re calling you Spider?” Jones called out as she slammed the front door of her apartment, the rippled glass frame declaring _Alias Investigations_ in gold rattling alarmingly, and stomped through the office to the liquor shelf.

“You know they call you bitch?” Peter retorted as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Oooh, itsy bitsy spider burn. Maybe they should call you Catwoman, ‘cause bitch you got claws,” Jones replied sarcastically, her cutting tone slashing through the apartment and making Peter grin.

Peter followed the sound of her voice into the office and shuddered at the sight of the surprising lean woman (for how much she drank and ate, at least) perched against her desk as she gulped cheap whiskey straight from the bottle.

“That is so gross,” Peter complained, cradling the mug of coffee in his hands. “At least pretend you’re human and put it in a coffee if it’s before nine am, yeah?”

“Irish coffee doesn’t do it for me,” Jones sneered, a quirk of her lips giving away her amusement despite her bitter tone. “Besides, I got healing factor.”

“No, you got tolerance,” Peter snarked back, then snorted a laugh.

“Bite me,” Jones snapped.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Peter asked, delighted.

“Oh. My. God. Shut the fuck up!” Malcom, Jones’ on again and off again assistant and full time neighbour, roared as he stumbled through the front door. “It’s seven in the morning, you asshats! You know full well that these walls are paper thin and Jesus Christ, Pete, you know better than to rile up a sloshed Jessica,” Malcom berated bitterly, standing in front of the duo with his hands on his hips, looking for all intents and purposes like a furious mother hen.

“Not sloshed,” Jones snarked, waving half a bottle of whiskey at him. “I’m keeping a buzz. Besides, I’m cutting down on my drinking.”

“You’ve downed ten shots in the last ten minutes,” Peter deadpanned.

“Well I’m tapering. You know, the cumulative hangover would probably kill me,” Jones giggled back.

“Stop. Quoting. Archer,” Malcom groaned, staggering over to a heavily worn sofa and collapsing face first into the smelly cushions, holding his head in his hands as if trying to stave off a migraine and failing.

“It’s always _stop_ and _no_ and _why do I even hang out with you guys_ with this one, isn’t it?” Peter quipped, raising an eyebrow at the collapsed man.

“Right? So testy,” Jones slurred.

Peter ignored the muttered sounds of _there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home_ from the sofa and climbed up onto his small desk a few feet away from Jones’ cluttered one. He sat cross-legged as he pulled out a cell phone and went back to work.

“Ay, Peter, how’s your aunt?” Jones asked suddenly, her voice breaking the moment of peace.

Peter looked up slowly at the slightly swaying woman, her full lips quirked and expression thoughtful.

“Yeah, May’s good,” Peter answered with a shrug and he went back to his phone.

“She told me you paid off the house,” Jones continued and Peter bristled.

“I haven’t been overcharging or stealing,” Peter began defensively.

“Nah, babe, I know. I check the books. But you’ve been hauling eighteen-hour days. You’ll collapse if you don’t chill out. Or, worse, make a mistake.” Her words were sharp, but Peter could hear the concern hidden behind scorn.

“Since when do you talk to May?” Peter asked instead of dignifying her statement with an answer.

“When haven’t I? Lady is cool as fuck. Wish she were my aunt,” Jones shrugged, taking another nip from her bottle. “’Sides, she pays for cocktails and what kind of woman would I be if I turned down brunch? Us ladies gotta stick together.” She then gave Peter a pointedly filthy look as he snorted at the word ‘ladies’.

During Jones’ rant, her computer had _pinged!_ and Malcom rolled off the couch to investigate.

“Hey, Jess, why do you have an alert set up for Spider on the dark web?” Malcom asked warily, eying the woman with trepidation.

“Oh fuck!” Jones barked, leaping over her desk, spilling papers and empty bottles, and shoving Malcom away a bit too harshly. She quickly began typing on her computer as Peter and a sullen Malcom leered over her shoulder.

A website called _Ernie’s Menagerie_ popped up on the screen and Jones quickly clicked on the highlighted words “Spider Exterminator Required / Cash Job”.

The posting had only been on the website for two minutes at most, but the counter on the right side of the screen showed that three hundred IPs were already detected reading the content.

_Mark: ‘Spider’ (known alias only)_

_Associations: Alias Investigations_

_Objective: Extermination_

_Payment: You Name It_

Included with the limited text was a grainy CCTV photo of Peter swathed in his black catsuit he used for jobs, holding his DSLR and a duffle bag. His face was much too blurry to distinguish any features but it gave a general idea of his size and height. The photo was taken across the street from Peter as he stood in front of a convenience store in the dead of night, a street he recognised as a main connection road between Hell’s Kitchen to Chelsea.

The last time he’d been on that road, he’d been investigating the rich guy spreading AIDS. Shit. Looks like the guy figured out the reason he was currently spending six consecutive life terms in prison.

“That’s a photo from the Serque job,” Peter stated dumbly, blinking in surprise.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Jones chanted as she quickly read through the message board at the bottom of the listing.

“Wait, why is everyone leaving the page?” Malcom asked a little hysterically, pointing at the IP counter which had spiked at over a thousand but was now plummeting towards zero.

Jones scrolled down to the bottom of the message board and then choked, her dark brown eyes widening and skin greying as if she had seen a ghost.

A little Hello Kitty cartoon brandishing two bloody swords was the last message on the board with an automated message next to it saying, _[Hello Kitty icon] has accepted the order! Happy hunting!_

There was nothing else written after that message, which Peter thought odd as it was still open for new discussions.

Jones jumped from her seat and launched at one of her built-in bookcases, pulling with her superhuman strength at the sides until the entire thing collapsed forward and she narrowly escaped being crushed. Behind the built-ins, which Peter had thought were – well – _built-in_ , hung three large plastic ziplock bags taped to the wall with Sharpie written on each one separately: _Jess, Peter, Malcom._

“Oh fuck, oh we are so fucked,” Jones whisper screamed as she yanked the plastic bags off the wall and tossed one each to Peter and Malcom. “Okay, listen fuckers. We have a CODE RED. A motherfucking, Hiroshima slash Bikini Islands sized Code Red! Give me your phones!”

Peter and Malcom immediately complied, both visibly shaken as they hadn’t seen Jones this panicked since her now-dead nemesis Killgrave had come back into town.

Jones immediately dropped their phones onto a pile on the floor and stomped until they were shards of twisted metal and shattered glass.

“What the fuck, Jess?!” Malcom screamed. “My whole life was on there!”

“No time to explain, your life is over, you’re a new person, look in the bags!” Jones demanded, picking up her laptop and Peter’s laptop, the phone remains, and raced into the kitchen. She shoved them into the microwave and Peter heard the crackling sound of technology and the microwave destroying one another.

“Bob Ross? What the actual fuck, Jess? When did you even _do this_?” Malcom asked and Peter turned to see the man holding a passport, a driver’s licence, and a credit card all bearing Malcom's face and the name _Bob Ross_ , plus a healthy sized wad of cash. Peter would have laughed if he wasn’t so completely shocked.

“As soon as you started associating with me,” Jones called out quickly, grabbing a go-bag from a large linen cupboard in her bedroom and racing back into the office. “Was for when Killgrave showed up, but then we took care of that problem and I figured we’d need it some day.” Jones then looked up at a stunned Peter, who was still holding his unopened ziplock bag.

Jones grabbed Peter’s shoulders, carefully giving a gentle squeeze as she looked pointedly into his eyes.

“Babe, this is a live or die moment. We’ll fix this, but right now we _have to go_. From this moment on, assume we are being bugged. No one say what your new ID is, and shit Malc, you may have just burned yourself but whatever. Assume we’re being watched. I’m going to your Aunt’s place and getting her the _fuck_ away. Spider, you’re going to meet up with me in two week’s time. Malc, you’re going to a hide out with the Aunt and you’re going to _protect her_.” Throughout her entire speech, Jones never once broke eye contact with Peter.

Jones quickly turned around and wrote down an address on a piece of paper. She quickly held it up to Malcom’s face so closely that he nearly went cross eyed trying to read it.

“Don’t say it aloud. Got it? Good.” Jones quickly lit the paper on fire with a magically procured lighter. “Go, Malc. I’ll meet you there in a couple days with the Aunt. It’s fully stocked with clothes, food, secure phones lines, the lot. So _no_ _stops_. Walk the whole way to the station, no running, head down, and pay for _everything_ with cash.”

Malcom stared at Jones for a solid three seconds before splitting out of the apartment in a mad dash.

Jones turned to Peter and he suddenly felt the situation hit him hard. Someone had put a _hit_ out on him. And someone who absolutely terrified Jessica Jones, in an eerily similar way to how Killgrave had, accepted the hit.

“Where am I going?” Peter asked quietly, eyes growing focused as he realised they needed to move, and quickly.

Jones wrote down another address on a piece of paper and held it up. Peter quickly memorised the out-of-state address and nodded, watching as she burned that paper too.

“It’s not the final destination. I’ll contact you once we’re ready and we’ll drop Aunty off with Malc and then fix this,” Jones assured. She then grabbed Peter into a massive bear hug and he was once again amazed by the sheer amount of strength in the petite woman. He carefully hugged her back, surprised by the touch.

Peter nodded once as they separated and then Jones was jumping out of her three storey window, landing with incredible grace on the pavement amongst startled pedestrians, and she took off into the bustling streets of New York City.

Peter quickly ran into the kitchen and placed his wallet, which was full of his IDs and cards, into the oven and set it on its highest temperature. If he was lucky, the damn thing would burn and melt before anyone made it to the flat. He took a moment to close his eyes, breathe deeply, and went to Jones’ bedroom. He pulled out a spare suit from the back of her messy wardrobe and yanked on the black spandex, tying his web cartridges to his wrists. He had used this outfit for the better part of five years to gather evidence on criminals and, not for the first time, Peter was immensely grateful he’d come up with the idea. Though a black outfit wasn’t exactly ideal during broad daylight in Manhattan and god knew if the hitman already knew what he looked like.

Peter blanched. Goddammit. He’d have to use the sewers. There were plenty of monsters and creatures lurking in the sewers, especially ones with a grudge against Peter seeing as he had quietly defended the city and forced quite a few of them back down into the large pipes, but right now that was his most likely chance at escape. Peter pulled his civilian clothes over his suit, stashed the bag of his new IDs in a backpack along with his mask, and took off into the city.

* * *

The sewers were exactly what Peter expected. Horrifically smelly, full of irritable monsters that would make even the most hardened New Yorker squeal with terror should they know what lay beneath the streets, and labyrinthine. Luckily, Peter had used the sewers a few times before on jobs and he was intimately familiar with the layout of the city, so following the slimy path to freedom paned out fairly successfully.

But, oh god, he was going to need new clothes. And a new suit. And maybe new skin if the odour wouldn’t wash off.

At last, Peter jumped through the end of a small venting tunnel opening onto a craggy outstretch of rocks overlooking the Atlantic ocean. He landed on a boulder and carefully scanned his surroundings, realising that he was at an industrial part of the city edges. There wasn’t anyone in immediate sight, but he could hear the bustling sounds of construction activity less than a mile away. Peter’s first action was to quickly anchor himself with a web to a nearby boulder and then launch himself into the freezing ocean, letting the salt water seep into his clothes and suit in an attempt to wash away the repulsive scent of New York’s sewerage system.

After a few minutes of scrubbing himself in the water, Peter pulled himself back out using his web anchor and shook rapidly like a wet dog to dry himself off. It was nearly October and as the journey had taken all day, the evening chill was beginning to bite his damp skin.

Peter frowned as he recalled the address Jones had given him. _67B Bunning Road, Brightmoor, Detroit._

What the hell was Jones doing with a safehouse in Detroit? Then again, the woman did once have an evil monster for a nemesis who could control people with his words like some kind of demented game of Simon Says. So, actually, Detroit totally makes sense. Jones wouldn’t buy property under her legal name and, to his knowledge, she had never lived in nor even visited Detroit (and he had done a _thorough_ background check on her a couple years into working for her).

So, Detroit. Peter smiled as he thought sourly to himself, _I was thinking about taking a holiday,_ and took off in the direction of the setting sun.


	2. Enter Player Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter finds out that Deadpool is very active on social media and decides that no, he would not like to friend that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I read somewhere that Daniel Way (an author/graphic artist of Deadpool) stated in an interview that Yellow and White are basically a reflection of Deadpool’s personality and the author’s perspective respectively. From the comics, it looks like Wade’s speech bubbles are always yellow, so it makes sense that Yellow is… Wade-esque, sort of. So, I’ve tried to emulate that with Yellow and White; Yellow is similar to Wade in gleeful madness but is separated from Wade’s thoughts, while White is more like the audience/author who is being taken along for the ride unwillingly and participates because it’s the only way to keep sane. Enjoy :)

It took Peter four days to get to the safehouse in Detroit. He had walked, hitchhiked (in which he’d had to beat the living hell out of an aggressive commuter who drove him for a total of one county), then had a lovely drive with a truckie (after doing an awesome James Bond roll out of the moving cab of the creep’s car), and then caught a cab to the safehouse at last.

Peter made a point to only stop at small, greasy spoon diners and run-down motels during the trip and kept his hood up at all times, avoiding the curious gaze of each county’s locals. Normally it would take less than a day of driving to get there, but he’d ended up going on slight detours and taking backroads to avoid the I-80, zigzagging his way up to the city in case he needed to shake a tail.

The dingy, worn weatherboard house turned out to be somewhat comfortable, if unloved and dusty. It was a two-storey shack and ‘67B’ was the top floor, a rickety wooden staircase running up the side of the building as the only entrance and leading into the lounge of a modest one bedroom flat. It looked like the downstairs neighbours, 67A, had left a long time ago so Peter didn’t have to worry about being bothered. In fact, it looked like most of the industrial neighbourhood had given up and left. 

Peter slept for fifteen hours after standing in the shower for half an hour and inhaling a can of cold spaghetti, too exhausted to bother using the ancient stove that seemed to splutter uselessly. But the electricity worked even if the water ran an off brown shade from the rusty pipes and Peter settled into waiting for Jones.

Contact eventually came a day later in the form of a grocery delivery with bottled water and a small parcel. After signing for a package under the name Steve Watson, the fabricated ID provided by Jones, Peter unwrapped the small box to discover a brand-new touchscreen Stark phone, set up with a prepaid SIM and a Skype account logged in ready for use. How the hell Jones pulled it off, Peter couldn’t even begin to imagine. What Peter did know, though, was that he owed Jones _big time._

Peter video called the only other number programmed into the phone and waited with baited breath as the phone rang.

“What?” A voice asked brusquely and the video feed took a moment to connect before Jessica Jones’ face appeared on the screen.

“J,” Peter breathed in relief, glad it wasn’t the face of the man behind the Hello Kitty icon. “Oh, thank _fuck_.”

“Sup?” Jones drawled, popping the _p_ and a smirk curling her lips.

“Oh, not much,” Peter muttered, a snort of disbelief at her cavaliere attitude escaping his nose. “Just currently being hunted by an unknown hitman and endangering my friends and family in the process. Same ol’, same ol’.”

“Welcome to my life,” Jones laughed. “And seriously, this is just a perk of the job when you work for the rich and famous. Private eyes of our stature don’t get paid enough for the shit we deal with.”

Peter hummed in agreement. “So… Have you heard from ‘Bob’ and Aunty?”

Jones’ face grew dark for a moment and Peter’s heart leapt into his throat. “Yeah,” she growled. “Dropped her off at the safehouse with _Bob_ but then the dumbass let her buy delivery McDonald’s on her credit card, so we’re going to enact Plan B.”

“This isn’t Plan B?” Peter asked, eyes growing wide as he thought about his aunt forcing her genuine but misguided mothering skills onto Malcom and the young man actually _letting her pay_. Malcom wasn’t a bad kid, but he definitely lacked a certain amount of survival instinct and, ever the artist, let his mind float into the clouds from time to time.

Jones laughed bitterly. “I have plans from A to Z, bud. Bob and Aunty are off to another safehouse for a while. I only have two; the one Bob burned and the one you’re in. They’re gonna be staying with a friend.” At Peter’s panicked expression, she emphasized, “A really good friend, kid. Don’t worry, they’ll be safe. And honestly, this might be a little overkill, but with this dude you don’t want to undermine his… Tracking skills.”

Peter frowned at Jones’ words and the shadow passing over her face.

“J, tell me, who is this guy?” Peter pressed, only half-hopeful that she’d answer. To his surprise, Jones frowned for a moment before nodding.

“So after I escaped Killgrave, I began keeping a tab on the supernaturally gifted. Not all of them, of course; there’s so fucking many of them since X-Men went public and they started coming out of the woodwork. So, just the… Dangerous ones. This guy, his street name is Deadpool and he’s kind of famous. You remember that massive super-fight in L.A. last year with all that shit about the kid who could throw flames?” Jones asked.

“Yeah, didn’t really keep on top of it, though,” Peter answered, feeling faint at the idea that his hitman had something to do with those throw-downs.

“Yeah, so this guy was kind of in the middle of it all. He’s really fucking dangerous, P. More so than even Killgrave, ‘cause that guy was _nuts_ but he wasn’t a Special Forces trained monster who _can’t die.”_

“Wait, stop,” Peter breathed, feeling his heart stutter. “Did you just say he can’t die?”

Jones snorted a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I tracked the suppressed footage on government sites, some of it using that spyware code you wrote, and holy shit, man. I’ve seen him _decapitated_ and then literally his body stands up, finds his head, and it _reattaches_. I’ve seen his heart blown out of his chest with a steel pipe and the dude was out for, what? Twenty minutes? Before he grew a _new heart_. This guy is unstoppable.”

“Are we seriously still talking about the Hello Kitty icon guy?” Peter asked faintly.

“Yeah. So, this guy is kinda whack, you know? Like Wolverine. Rumour has it they were in the same program.” Jones then sighed and a weary expression washed over her face. “But so much more insane and immoral and he’s got all kinds of spanners loose in his head. Some of the footage I saw had him talking to himself. Like, a full-blown conversation and he was clearly losing the conversation. To himself. So, I don’t know, P. This is going to be a tough one.”

“So you’re basically saying that I’ve found my own Killgrave and have to hide forever,” Peter answered, his own voice sounding as if it were under water. He realised it wasn’t his voice but rather his ears, the sound of blood rushing overwhelming and a high pitch whistle filling his head.

“Well, for all the fucker’s misgivings, he’s apparently got _something_ of a moral conscience, even if it’s the equivalent of minor mould growth. I think that, if we can reach out to him, we might have a chance of explaining our side and removing the hit,” Jones stated, mouth curling into a sneer as if even she couldn’t believe her own plan.

“You want me to talk to the crazy murder man? In the hopes he’ll take pity?” Peter asked to clarify, because this may possibly be the dumbest thing Jessica Jones had ever said and he had seen her drunk for five consecutive years, so that was truly saying something.

“Sure babe, you come up with a better plan,” Jones scoffed, clearly offended. “It’s not like you’ve been exactly _helpful_ in the last week.”

Peter felt the words hit him like a punch, guilt and mortification at the entire situation sinking deep into his normally thick skin. Jones had basically organised everything, from the surprise fake IDs and cash to the safehouses and protecting his aunt and goddammit this was Peter’s fault, if he’d just been a little more fucking _careful_ and avoided CCTV better they wouldn’t even be in this –

“Fuck me, Peter, I’m sorry,” Jones’ voice broke through his internal panic. “Listen, I’m all kinds of exhausted and bitter and this whole thing really brings back bad memories of Killgrave. It’s not like I’m mad at you ‘cause, shit, it’s not like you asked for this and who would have thought that snarky little diseased shit of a trust fund baby would have the balls to call on a hit like this?” Jones paused for a moment and they both stared at one another in surprise.

“He totally wouldn’t, right?” Peter asked Jones.

“No fuckin’ way, that moron is basically wet cardboard. His daddy and mommy, maybe?” Jones pondered in a scathing tone. “Nah, they’re more spineless than their son. So maybe a friend of theirs, or someone they opened their whiny WASP mouths to at a party. If we can locate the source of the hit, then we can shut it down. But fuckin’ _Ernie’s Menagerie_ is encrypted and security is tighter than a nun’s v’, so there’s no way we’re getting anything from that side.”

Peter’s face twisted in disgust at the imagery Jones’ words caused before shaking his head. “I’ll start working on something. _Ernie’s_ is the only clue we have, right? So send me a laptop and I’ll get on it.”

Jones scoffed. “I’m not made of money, P,” she retorted. At Peter’s unimpressed stare, she sighed and then waved a hand at the camera. “Yeah, whatever, fine. I’ll set it up. In the meantime, stay put, keep the curtains closed, and for fucks sake, _don’t_ order delivery McD’s on one of your credit cards.”

“Oh shit,” Peter blurted. “I think I may have burnt your flat down. I put my wallet in the oven and set it to fan forced maximum. Sorry,” Peter offered, a grim expression on his face.

“God. Fucking. Dammit.” Was all Jones said before she disconnected the call and Peter felt himself truly laugh for the first time in nearly a week. Some things never got old and riling up Jessica Jones was oh so high on Peter’s list.

* * *

Wade Wilson grinned as he skipped up a grimy subway station stairwell. It had been _so long_ since he last had a reason to visit New York, the Big Apple, the Stinky Cheese, the City That Never Sleeps – no, wait, _is that Seattle?_

[What will you have, sir?] Yellow asked, excitably setting Wade up.

Wade leapt onto the last step, emerging onto a busy Manhattan street, and pointed at the nearest pedestrian with a dramatic flourish. “I’ll have what _she’s_ having!” He screamed, terrifying a pack of rushing commuters who turned to the enormous, insanely built crazy man in red. Who was carrying _guns_ and _swords_ and a weird ass utility belt – Wade felt the people around him relax immediately, acting as if he were some kinky cosplayer to be ignored, and the flow of the street returned to people looking down at their phones and busily going on with their lives.

And _that, right there_ , was the reason Wade _loves_ the ol’ N-Y-C. These freaks could handle anything with a cool, hipster nonchalance as if, “Oh god no, that creep in the red suit doesn’t bother me. In fact, he’s basically a landmark. Go down Fifth Avenue and you’ll see even a _weirder_ guy wearing bushes for clothes, and trust me, that’s something you’ll never unsee.”

These pseudo-thick skinned, fabulously dressed, concrete padding _city dwellers_.

Wade inhaled deeply, scenting the piss-flavoured streets with a relish, and exhaled, hands on his hips in a Superman pose. Ah, he might as well catch up with the charming alien hotshot while he was in town – shit, no, wrong universe _. God fucking dammit,_ ‘ _Pool,_ Wade berated himself. _We’re on a job, man. Act cool!_

Wade’s nose twitched suddenly as he smelled something like a… House fire? The sound of squealing sirens cut through the air and a fire truck honked horrendously loudly as it tried to push through the crawling city traffic. Wade frowned and followed the smell, a twinging feeling of suspicion pitting the bottom of his stomach as it led him along the same path to his mark’s known watering hole, Alias Investigations.

As he turned a corner, Wade gaped comically at the sight of a large brick residential building on fire. Well, the sight of a third story apartment’s windows billowing dark smoke. A a sudden fit of glee raced through Wade’s body as pedestrians bustled past him on the sidewalk, fleeing the scene.

“Someone was melting what looks like a wallet in the oven and some tech in the microwave,” a nearby fireman moaned at one of his comrades. “Like, I’m not into people getting hurt, but would it really be that much of an ask for it to once be a fire instead of idiots burning shit or someone falling down the stairs?”

Wade felt his lips curl into a dark grin.

[He knows he knows he knows! OH-EM-GEE we have a HUNT!] Screamed Yellow, releasing a startling battle cry to punctuate the statement.

(Calm the fuck down, man), White retorted, (You’re going to give us an aneurism. And that might not keep us down for long, but shit man that recovery _hurts._ )

“We have a hunt,” Wade agreed reverently with Yellow, hands coming up to clap spandex covered cheeks and eyes glittering with joy.

 (…Fuck.)

* * *

Jones had a new laptop delivered to Peter and a mobile hotspot to supplement his phone plan (which was painfully _slow_ ), allowing Peter to start setting up his plans. He got through six more days of tinkering with code and poking around _Ernie’s Menagerie_ to look for weak points before he broke down and finally Googled Alias Investigations.

As he suspected with dread and regret (hindsight was always 20/20), his wallet had caught fire and the smoke had led the fire department to the Manhattan office of Alias Investigations. As a result, Jessica Jones was wanted for questioning as the prime suspect for attempted arson. She was also reported as ‘at large’ and the articles included a rather unattractive mugshot of the woman from a few years ago, apparently the only intimidating enough photo of Jones that the news sites could find (or only photo, more likely, as the woman was infamous for her ability to avoid cameras).

This news made Peter nervous as Jones wasn’t exactly the subtle type and she was easy enough to recognise; tall, whip thin, gorgeous, and completely filthy mouthed. And an outed mutant, as the news reported, so people would be especially interested in keeping an eye out for her. After all, a dangerous super on the loose? Makes for great gossip.

Wherever Jones was hiding, Peter desperately hoped the woman was keeping her nose clean and her beverages kosher – both of which may be asking the universe a bit too much, but a man could hope.

To his relief, less out of self-preservation and more out of concern for his aunt’s wellbeing, Peter’s face went unreported and name unmentioned. He and Jones had arranged from the start to keep his identity out of Alias Investigations so that he could work fully undercover and unnoticed. The only people who knew he was associated with Alias was the original P.I. who sent him to Jones but the old man had died a couple years back, and then there was Malcom and Aunt May. None of Peter’s clients ever met him face to face, except for the rare few who walked into the office and considered him ‘just the receptionist’ for Jones. Unfortunately, the majority of his clients couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut to save their lives.

Of course, Peter had his sources but the majority of those were dealt with over secure phone lines or online chatrooms. The rare moments he met someone in person, which was mainly for the sources who were homeless or in shelters, he always went in the dead of night, protected by his suit and mask.

The most upsetting part of this whole ordeal was that it brought Jones back into the limelight and threated her safety, especially since she was the only known associate of “Spider”. And what a ridiculous name that was. Peter had known about it for a few months, the street name attributed to him after he started using his web cartridges a little more publicly in the night. The Daily Bungle, of course, had failed to do any kind of proper journalism and ran a sensational article about a giant spider loose in the city leaving webs in its wake. Which, of course, got Peter sarcastically dubbed “The Spider” on the street as if it were some kind of inside joke at The Bungle’s expense.

Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefingers, staving off a headache. He closed the news sites he had been blankly staring at for a while as his mind wandered and instead clicked on the encrypted email server he used for his sources, planning on getting in touch with a few to see if they knew anything. Peter had set up an VPN of sorts, ensuring that his computer’s address would be bounced around too many countries and counties to be locatable as he wasn’t sure what kind of tech skills this mercenary would have.

Peter was surprised to see a flood of messages in his inbox, each a varying response of loyalty and blacklisting.

_‘Heard about a certain someone interested in finding you. I really don’t have the time for that heat, so please don’t contact me in the future. I don’t know anything about you and I won’t say anything, but seriously don’t contact me.’_

Peter scowled and deleted that message.

_‘Yo spider-man! Word on the street is that you got some kinda hit on ya! Good fun, man. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Lemme know if you need any help! Happy to be your eyes and ears :) xoxo’_

As much as Peter appreciated that, he couldn’t be sure that his sources hadn’t been compromised already so he frowned and deleted that message too.

The rest of the twenty or so messages in his inbox went along those two strains until he reached the most recent message. Peter frowned for a moment as he looked at the odd name of the sender, a little box surrounding the words {Sugar&Spice}. He didn’t have anyone on his contact list under that ID and he hovered the mouse over the message subject before finally giving in and clicking on it.

_‘Here kitty kitty...’_

Peter read the words slowly and the hairs on his neck immediately stood tall, a tingling spidey sense overtaking his flesh and covering it in goosebumps.

Peter weighed the benefits of ignoring the message or replying. It would be stupid to reply, right? _Come on, Pete, don’t taunt the immortal murder man_ , he thought to himself as he twisted his wrists. _Ah fuck it, why not?_ He thought suddenly, giving in to impulse.

_‘Hello, Kitty. Isn’t that my line?’_

Peter clicked send before he could stop himself and waited for a moment. To his surprise, the answer was near instant.

‘ _Aw Spidey got spunk! Don’t worry though, babe, I’ll come anytime you call. Gimme your number?’_

Peter blinked at the screen in shock. Did the man really think that literally asking for Peter’s number was going to work? His first instinct was to send the mercenary a couple choice swear words and delete his secure account, because hell knows how compromised all of his old forms of communication now were. But he stilled for a moment, considering Jones’ original plan.

‘ _Send me yours and I’ll think about it.’_ Peter typed quickly, unlocking his phone so he could dial Jones  immediately if this went south.

The messaging system was inactive for a few minutes and Peter wondered if the guy logged out of his account and was ready to do the same when a new message popped up.

‘ _0800 DeadPool – tell the lady that Sugar ‘n’ Spice wants to have a chat!!!1! She’ll connect you to my mobile ^u^’_

Peter waited for a moment before deleting all of his contacts, wiping his old messages, and then deleting his account. If Deadpool tried to message him again, he’d get an automated message telling him that the account was no longer active.

Peter staggered to an old, mouldy sofa and collapsed onto it, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Had Deadpool found his account through a source? How many of his sources were burned? And what the hell was wrong with this dude? Who even uses numbers and exclamation marks in the same line anymore? It’s not 2004 anymore, for fuck’s sake.

Peter groaned and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. The situation was already wildly out of control but at least Peter had a way to contact this mercenary. He raised his phone and clicked call, deciding to discuss the situation with Jones before he made an even bigger ass out of himself.

“We’re going to catch up with a guy named Weasel,” Jones drawled as soon as the phone line connected. “Rumour has it the guy has an in with Deadpool and is a bit of a tech whiz. Piece of work, though. History of running crime speakeasies and one-stop hit-shops. If anyone could get us intel on Deadpool, though, it’s him.”

“You want us to meet up with a friend of Deadpool named _Weasel_? Have you finally lost it?” Peter grumbled as he rose from the couch and sat back down at the kitchen table to research ‘Weasel’.

“And what’s your idea, kid?” Jones retorted with a snort.

“Call Deadpool,” Peter offered.

A full minute of silence interspersed with static filled the line. Peter picked at a stray string on his hoody sleeve, briefly registering the sound of a chopper flying overhead. In this neighbourhood, it wasn’t that uncommon considering the level of televised crime.

“What?” Jones eventually stated, tone flat.

“He actually messaged one of my secure emails. Had to delete the account, ‘cause, you know. So that sucks. But he gave me his number which, get this, is literally 0800 DEADPOOL, if you can believe it,” Peter muttered, neck twisting into a weird angle as he squished his phone between his ear and shoulder, freeing up his hands to type. Peter knew he should really just set the phone on speakerphone to prevent a crick in his neck but years of clandestine training made him twitchy when it came to confidential calls.

“He even has a Facebook page, which is for murder I assume? I’m pretty sure that’s against Facebook’s terms and conditions but I get the impression that if they removed his page, he’d go all Death Star on Silicone Valley. Same with Instagram. Oh, gross. He really does have an Instagram account. Have you seen this shit, Jess? There’s like plushies and blood, so much blood –”

“You spoke to him, didn’t you?” Jones cut through Peter’s ramblings, voice cold.

“Yeah, just a couple messages. Thought it wouldn’t hurt to get a bit of information on him. Plus, he seems open to talk,” Peter answered sullenly.

“P, there are so many fucking risks in that. What if this Weasel guy tracks your computer? Jesus, P, I just told you that he’s a tech whiz and basically a Black Hat -” Jones started berating before Peter quickly cut through.

“Seriously, I’m not an idiot, I promise I was careful and –” Peter began vehemently, a little pissed that Jones wasn’t trusting him more, when he was instantly cut off as the door to the dimly lit house shattered inwards, wood splinters spraying the lounge room.

Peter dropped his phone in surprise, overwhelmed with the sudden influx of light into the small house from the gaping hole that used to be the front door. An enormous sillouette, nearly the size of the doorway itself, blocked the light. It looked like the massive shape of a man with weird shapes all over him – _holy shit_ , _those are weapons! Gun, knife – bomb?_ Peter thought frantically, leaping away on instinct as a grenade rolled over the floor and tapped against the kitchen table leg innocently.

Peter crashed through the window of the kitchen backwards just as the grenade went off, the shockwave blasting rubble through the front door and shattered window. Peter twisted painfully in the air and managed to land, hard, on his hands and feet in a crouch.

“Oh. My. God. Fuck ‘The Spider’, you should totally have been called _The Kitten_. You know that, right? Those were some _sweeeet_ moves! And so fast, too! Kitty always lands on his feet!” A deep voice blabbered, the volume warbling up and down drastically as the ringing in Peter’s ears throbbed for a moment. Peter blinked in disorientation at the massive guy in front of him, wondering when he’d shown up and why weren’t his spidey senses tingling – and _what the fuck_ was the guy saying? Wait, what was he _wearing_?

Peter shook off the shock after five seconds of blankly blinking at the mercenary in red before jumping at him with inhuman speed. Peter bounced roughly off the guy’s chest, trying to surprise him, and used the leverage to leap away. Peter felt fingers brush the sides of his ankles and realised the guy had nearly managed to grab him. So he was _fast_ too. Good to know.

Peter took off down the road as fast as he could, so fucking thankful that he’d decided to keep his suit on under his clothes and mask in his pocket. He didn’t bother taking his web spinners out of his hoody pocket just yet, knowing the assassin would be hot on his heels, and focused his energy on running as fast as he could.

A loud chopping noise broke his concentration and Peter gaped in surprise at the sight of a military helicopter passing over him insanely close, barely a couple yards over his head. The man in red and that odd patterned mask stood in the cabin with the doors pushed aside, visibly laughing though he couldn’t be heard over the ear-splitting _whopwhopwhop_ of the chopper blades.

Peter skidded to a stop, staring down Deadpool as the chopper turned to hover over the empty street so the mercenary could stare right back at him. Deadpool reached out with his index finger and curled it towards him in the international symbol for _come here_.

_Uh, no way, asshole,_ Peter thought to himself, suddenly furious. He reached into his hoody pocket, ignoring Deadpool’s head shake at the motion and a massive gun rising up to level at his face, and he quickly tied his web spinners to his wrists. Peter didn’t have an arsenal of weaponry or a fucking _helicopter_ , but he had experience with assholes and he was _really fucking tired of this whole situation_.

Deadpool tensed further as Peter slowly withdrew his right hand from his pocket. Peter made an exaggerated “ _oh!_ ” face at his curled fist with his middle finger standing proud as if surprised then pointedly flipped the bird to Deadpool. Peter had expected a lot of reactions (shooting, swear words, another grenade), but watching Deadpool fall over in laughter wasn’t one of them.

_Crazy fucker_ , Peter thought to himself, and noticed the pilot was carefully watching Peter out of the corner of his eye. He was a seriously large guy, as big as Deadpool himself, and Peter found himself unreasonably annoyed that all these steroid riddled ex-military assholes had decided to pick on him.

Peter pressed his ring finger and middle finger sharply into his palm and jerked his hand around in a lassoing motion, whipping a thick cord of webbing at the chopper’s blades. Peter broke off the webbing and then turned on his heel, sprinting at the nearest cover and diving over an overgrown hedge as the webbing made contact with the helicopter. A high pitch whine cut through the sound of the chopper’s rhythmic beating and Peter curled into a ball as he heard the sound of twisting steel and shattering glass as the chopper began to spin out of control. An overwhelming _boom!_ shook the abandoned neighbourhood and Peter grinned bitterly in satisfaction.

_Good luck surviving that, assholes,_ he thought to himself angrily, before deflating minutely. He didn’t want to kill the hitmen, necessarily, but hopefully the crash had at least temporarily incapacitated them. Peter uncurled from his hiding spot in the shrubbery, waiting for a moment and listening intensely. He could only make out the sounds of groaning metal and the stink of a diesel fire, so Peter rose to his feet slowly and turned to find the crash. As he did so, a massive fist covered in black leather shot into Peter’s line of sight and he gasped in shock as it wrapped painfully tight around his throat and lifted him up to the very tips of his toes.

“That was _not_ very nice,” the red mercenary stated, his voice deeper than before and ice cold. Peter shuddered in his grip, partially from pain but mostly from terror.

From this close, Peter could see the man was easily six and a half feet tall, built like a vault, and covered in thick black leather and red spandex. His white eye lenses were surrounded by pitch black ovals that reminded him of a panda’s markings, surprisingly expressive for a mask. Narrowed lenses glared at Peter’s face and he stopped trying to squirm and kick the man, though he did wrap both hands around the man’s arm to try and relieve some pressure from his throat.

“Says the man,” Peter croaked around the tight fist on his throat, “Who’s been tryin’ to murder me.”

“A job’s a job,” the mercenary shrugged, the movement bobbing Peter with effortless strength, and the fabric around his lips tightened sharply as if he were smirking. “’Sides, way I’ve heard it, you have a nasty habit of fabricating evidence.”

“Fuck you,” Peter spat through his wheezing, fury rushing through his veins and momentarily brushing aside his fear. “Never fabricated shit. Dude was a misogynist spreadin’ fatal diseases to girls. He’s lucky he’s in prison and not a morgue.”

Deadpool studied Peter for a moment, his head cocking to the side in an alarmingly endearing movement. Peter felt the fight leave him at that small, childish move. This poor bastard _clearly_ had his own issues going on, but at least he seemed to listen.

“Weeeelllll,” Deadpool drawled, elongating the word for a few moments that felt like eternity in Peter’s oxygen deprived mind. “That’s certainly a different tune than my little birdy told me! But if that’s how it went down –”

Deadpool stopped talking when he noticed that the boy in his hand had passed out. The mercenary suddenly realised he was still dangling the kid by the throat and dropped him as if burned, wincing as the kid’s unconscious frame hit the ground and began sharply inhaling air as his body attempted to force oxygen into its lungs. A sharp bruise was already starting to bloom on the column of the kid’s throat, a nasty blue and purpling handprint.

“My bad?” Deadpool asked the air unsurely. It had been a _reaaally_ long time since he’d not killed a mark and it seemed like his body didn’t know when to stop. If the kid had been less than a mutant, he’d probably have died already from a collapsed oesophagus or burst lung or whatever else human people croaked from.

(‘S probably muscle memory) White mused. (You’ve gotten too used to the murder thing).

[Hell nah! We didn’t kill him _immediately_ so I say we’re goin’ soft!] Yellow protested vehemently, if a little defensively.

_It’s not for a lack of trying, at least at first,_ Wade thought, a hand coming up to hold his chin as he fell deep into thought. _Kid’s suupppeer fast though_.

[Didja see that wicked fast jump out the window?! It was amaaazzing!] Yellow sang excitably.

(Yes, we were all there), White bit out impatiently. (Now, host body, we gonna shoot, leave him, or take him?)

Wade considered this while Yellow rambled in the background about an absurd game called _Fuck Marry Kill_.

“Take him with us,” Wade stated surely, nodding to emphasize his decision.

(Yellow’s right, you’ve gotten soft) White sighed dramatically.

[ _I so told you!_ ] Yellow shouted.

“But it’s not fair to leave the little lightening bug unconscious in the ghetto. That’s asking for all kinds of shit,” Wade answered, frowning.

“Wade. What are you doing?” A deep voice broke through Wade’s internal (and semi-external) conversation.

“Deciding what to do with that, buns o’ steel!” Deadpool chirped, pointing at the unconscious kid in the bushes.

“I didn’t sign up for killing children, Deadpool,” Logan, better known as Wolverine ( _or Jimmy?_ Wade couldn’t keep up), stated gruffly, expression cold. “I only came to fly the chopper to prevent you from wrecking it and, now that I’m saying that out loud, I’m beginning to realise where I went wrong.”

“Oh, _puh-lease_ , man. He’s _at least_ twenty! One more year and he can order himself a whiskey and coke – oh holy shit, he’s a kid, isn’t he?” Wade backtracked, his mask’s eye lenses growing wide. “But ex-nay on the ob-jay! And thanks for the lift and sorry to Professor Utonium for the helicopter but, seriously, if they didn’t want it wrecked then they really, really, _really_ should _not_ let me borrow their shit so actually their fuckin’ fault come to think of it –”

“Please. Just. Shut up,” Logan groaned, index finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in despair.

“Besides, big boy,” Wade crooned. “This wee silk spinner’s comin’ with us! He has a _totally_ different version of the story I was told, so it’s time for Wade Wilson’s favourite past time – wait for it – _reveeennggeee!_ ” Wade sang with gusto as he dropped to his knees, raising his hands gloriously to the heavens.

Logan raised his eyes to the sky too as if asking the clouds for strength before shaking his head and turning to walk away.

Wade grinned at his muscular sidekick ( _(Never, ever,_ ever _say that to his face) White warned_ ) before turning to scoop the small frame of the infamous Spider into a bridal hold.

_Who_ _wasn’t there anymore._ The little itty bit of joy had literally disappeared under the nose of two Special Forces trained mutants while they nattered on.

The little niggling feeling of gleeful excitement that Wade had been feeling since New York suddenly increased tenfold.

Things were about to get so fucking _fun_.


	3. On The Road Again (goin' places that I've never been)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes friends and remembers a lost one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your amazing comments <3 I feel like a greedy dragon hoarding my reviews and I love it. Also, there's no Wade in this one but I assure you the next chapter will more than make up for it...

Peter winced as he crawled up the weatherboard exterior of Unit 67B, the small scratches and large bruises on his skin tingling uncomfortably. _The fucker is strong, fast, and genuinely nuts,_ Peter thought to himself miserably. He jumped through the open window of the smashed kitchen, flinching harshly as he heard Deadpool scream-sing _“Revenge!”_ in a high pitch. _Wacko_.

Peter quickly sorted through the smouldering ruins of the flat and breathed a sigh of relief when he found his nearly indestructible Stark phone unharmed ( _Still not as good as the Nokia brick,_ he mused to himself, _doubt this one has Snake_ ) propped against one of the kitchen skirting boards. Peter grabbed the device quickly as well as his bag, which had been shielded behind the now smoking couch. He groaned forlornly at the sight of his destroyed laptop laying under a broken kitchen chair.

Peter jumped out of the window again, landing more gracefully this time, and knew for sure that the two hitmen would have noticed he was gone by now. He silently leapt over a neighbouring fence in the backyard of the house and stuck to the long shadows of the setting sun, creeping away slowly but surely from the pluming black smoke billowing off the helicopter crash.

The Detroit PD were undoubtably en-route by now and Peter did _not_ want to get caught up in the inevitable crossfire. Right on cue, a loud police siren pierced the air and another helicopter could be heard in the distance approaching the scene. Peter had done a bit of research about Detroit and had found out that the city had outsourced some of their policing to a couple ex-military black-op firms that offered more muscle than brain. Whatever was about to go down in front of Jones’ now destroyed house was between the illegal mercenaries and the legal mercenaries; Peter wanted to have nothing to do with it. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to imagine that Deadpool and his friend could easily take down an entire squad.

And there was something so very familiar about Deadpool’s pilot. A memory tingled warningly in the back of his mind, but he was too distracted and feeling fractured to really pay attention to the sensation.

_First, find a hideout,_ Peter thought to himself. He didn’t have any cash ( _all that destroyed dough_ , he mourned) but he did have a credit card and his passport in the bag, plus his web spinners. Though eventually he was going to run out of the web solution if he didn’t rein on their use.

Peter felt tempted to call Jones back, but he wasn’t sure just yet how Deadpool had found him and he didn’t want to chance putting anyone else at risk. So he focused on making a plan for himself without Jones’ help, for once, and headed towards the country.

* * *

To Peter’s surprise, someone actually picked him up from the side of the road despite the fact he was sure he looked like a burnt delinquent runaway. The caravan door opened to reveal a tie-dye wearing hippie and her long-haired husband, a relaxed naturalist who clucked sadly at the large handprint shaped bruise on his throat. The husband revealed fairly early on that he used to work on Wall Street as a stock broker while his wife had run not-so-FDA-approved trials for a pharmaceutical company. The charming couple had quit working back in the 90’s and used their savings to buy a caravan, opting to sell boutique essential oils as a means of income and doing good deeds to repent for their perceived evil behaviour while in the rat race.

Peter listened to the couple’s wild stories with a smile, shrugging when they asked where he wanted to be dropped off. They didn’t tell him he had to leave, so he didn’t and was invited to camp with the couple as they made their way through the mid-west on backroads. Errol, the husband, had informed Peter that the main freeways were systematically destroying small towns and, as a result, they avoid freeways if they could. Sherryl, the wife, wasn’t nearly as concerned about small towns as she lamented the amount of petrol and diesel the cars used.

“Terrible, just terrible for the environment. We use recycled cooking oil, of course, and let me tell you, trying to figure out how to avoid monoxide poisoning was good fun, but even then it’s still terrible for the environment,” Sherryl sighed. “Do you have a car?” She had asked sharply, turning to eye Peter with a piercing expression and ignoring the winding road before her, large bangles jangling on her wrists as she clenched the steering wheel.

“No ma’am,” Peter answered dutifully. “Just a skateboard. I use public transportation if I need to get places fast.”

Sherryl had nodded in satisfaction and Peter was surprised to note that was the only personal question about his past that the couple asked. All following questions were about his future and his travelling plans.

Sherryl and Errol stopped for the night a few hours later at a campsite and, in the morning after a delicious meal and a long rest, Peter asked to borrow a couple quarters; he was committed to pay this nice couple back for their hospitality and generosity as soon as he could. In response, Sherryl laughed and picked up a Costco-sized pickle jar full of coins, depositing the oversized container into Peter’s arms. Peter nearly buckled at the weight even with his super strength and he wondered, not for the first time, if this couple were outcast mutants.

Peter tottered to the campsite’s payphone with the jar in his arms and dialled Jones’ number, reading off his cell phone contacts to call the foreign number. He was wary of using the device again and switched it to airplane mode back in Detroit. Peter figured that if Deadpool was tracking Jones’ calls, it wouldn’t hurt for the mercenary to know his location as they were about to pull out of the campsite anyway.

“What?” Jones demanded defensively as soon as the line connected.

“J, it’s me,” Peter mumbled into the phone, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention to him.

“P,” Jones breathed in relief. “Oh my god, I really thought the worst. I’ve been pulling my hair out for hours. _Where have you been?_ ” Jones’ voice turned from concerned to furious in a heartbeat.

“I’m not sure how secure this line is, so I’ll keep it short. He found me, I escaped and now I’m on the move. I’m okay for now, I just wanted to check in and make sure you and Aunty and Bob are okay too,” Peter answered softly, worrying his bottom lip with a nail.

“Yeah, we’re all good. I don’t know how the asshole found you, but I’ve stepped up my precautions. I’ll be dropping this number soon anyway and don’t feel comfortable telling you my new one over the phone. What if we meet up somewhere? Aunty is going nuts about you and is demanding that I take her to you, but Bob’s pretty happy at my friend’s place. So I’m going to go collect her,” Jones said quickly, barely pausing for breath.

“Yeah, alright,” Peter sighed, knowing that he should be protesting harder but he really did miss his aunt and wanted to make sure she was unharmed. “What about that place I told you I always wanted to go and take a picture, when you made fun of me and called me an immature dweeb?” Peter asked with sudden slyness.

“No,” Jones barked, tone brittle. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine, then you think of a place we can go and describe it to me without saying the name,” Peter taunted.

Jones was silent for a moment.

“No, P,” Jones whined suddenly. “Please, just – no, okay?”

“Oh, yes,” Peter countered, delighted. “Meet you there exactly one week from today, same time, in front of the building that I’ve _always_ wanted to take a photo in front of.”

Jones could be heard groaning loudly in despair.

Peter grinned. They were going to _Disneyland_.

* * *

Sherryl and Errol were pleased that Peter had decided on a direction and insisted that they were more than happy to drive to Anaheim, California. Apparently, the couple hadn’t been to L.A. in nearly two decades and were interested in seeing the difference in development. Their fascination quickly turned to scorn when, six days later, the caravan was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and smog permeated the air, hanging low and suffocating.

“Absolutely revolting,” Sherryl hissed as she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.

“Darling –” Errol tried to say calmingly.

“No, Errol. Look at this _pollution_ ,” Sherryl spat, trembling in rage.

“Uh,” Peter interrupted ineloquently. “Disneyland is only a couple hours away now, maybe more in this traffic. How about we pull into a restaurant and say our goodbyes?”

Sherryl agreed immediately.

Their parting was simple. Peter bought the couple a meal on his credit card and gave them each a tight hug, knowing he was going to be forever grateful for their hospitality. Sherryl’s eyes welled with tears and even Errol seemed choked up as their essential oils business card was pressed into Peter’s hands.

“Call me whenever you need a ride and I’ll be there like the Knight’s Bus, baby,” Sherryl whispered, making Peter laugh.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered and then they were gone, the large caravan pulling out into traffic amongst honking and Sherryl’s colourful language.

He was going to miss those two.

* * *

Peter had never been to the West Coast and, so far, he was not impressed. It surely wasn’t fair to judge an entire state on the madness of Anaheim, but it was just so touristy and clogged and miserable. Peter felt himself missing the quiet moments of listening to John Denver in the car with Errol and Sherryl with each passing hour.

All of the hotels near Disneyland were booked out with the exception of a small, filthy motel that advertised hourly rates, making Peter shudder. He was eternally grateful for his superpowers, knowing that he would feel infinitely more uncomfortable if he was unable to defend himself in the seedy hovel.

Peter watched a scraggly, world-weary woman walk by in scuffed stilettos as he sat on a plastic chair outside his sticky room on the balcony of the motel. A faded pink neon sign rotated creakily on a tall pole, advertising the hotel’s availability. Peter watched the sun sink into the horizon, going golden yellow through the smog and visible to the eye.

Despite looking nothing like her, the woman reminded Peter of Jasmin, the prostitute he had met on the Serque case.

* * *

_Six months ago_

As Peter swung through the streets, stalking the yellow taxi carrying Serque and the call girl with hawk-like precision, he wondered what his next step should be. By principle, Peter did not interfere with the crimes of his marks. Afterall, the deeper the hole his marks dug for themselves, the better evidence he could gather to put them away for good.

Peter had gained a bit of a reputation for taking down the dirtiest, most repulsive criminals on both the streets and in the skyscrapers around him, the kind of sadistic criminal that even the local mobs spoke of with disgust. With the exception of a few memorable cases, he generally specialised in somewhat less violent crime than this case and worked on non-paying side jobs in his spare time.

Peter’s current obsession was focusing on the illicit washing of billions of cartel dollars through Hinston Banking Corporation. While his constant stream of evidence that he fed to the FBI wasn’t being acted on (Peter knew the cartels and banks had inside sources in most government agencies), eventually the evidence would be too overwhelming for them _not_ to act.

That, or Peter would eventually have to threaten the government to make a move lest he release the massive accumulation of evidence against Hinston Corp online. While Peter knew that most of the super-rich had enough sway with the media to tamp down on such stories in newspapers and TV, he also knew that independently-run online media sites had become powerful enough to get the message out to hundreds of millions of readers on the sly. And once all hell broke loose, there was no way the FBI could claim ignorance. So, the government department could either save face now or get taken down a notch later.

The thought made Peter smile. He didn’t have a great track record with the Federal Bureau of Investigation; the agents generally disliked a rogue vigilante who could come out of nowhere and blow most of their decade-long investigations out of the water with less than a month of research. Peter had never met the agents face-to-face but instead preferred to send them faxes (and it actually made Peter _cringe_ that they still used facsimile machines) of evidence and a specially dedicated encrypted email server that he used to communicate with the agents.

At one point, the agency complained that he used too much ink for the faxes, so Peter would occasionally fax them a full black page just to waste as much toner as possible. It wasn’t a great use of tax money, but it was worth the brittle emails he would receive in return, passive aggressively “requesting” that he _immediately cease acting like a child_ and _report to the agency at once and show himself_.

_Oh, sure. That’s a good idea,_ Peter had thought to himself at the time, rolling his eyes so hard that he nearly strained a muscle.

It wasn’t that Peter didn’t respect the agents who were just doing their job. But Peter had come to realise that time and red-tape jades everyone eventually and the powers-that-be in the FBI (the old men and women at the top of the food chain) had long since strayed from the path that brought them to the FBI in the first place. Peter knew, by using his own spyware, that the FBI spent more time, money and resources on trying to out Spider’s ID than they did on pinning Hinston Corp. All because Peter didn’t play by their rules and didn’t obey their instruction. Peter flew in the face of everything they believed in, choosing instead to brand him an enemy of the state rather than a valuable source because he _embarrassed_ them.

Peter knew as well that the agency had rejected the offered help from the CIA and NSA to get involved, mostly because the FBI thought he was _theirs_. That they could catch him, flip him and keep him in a dark cell for the rest of time, only pulling him out on occasion to solve a crime they couldn’t. _Catch Me If You Can_ , style. Peter would rather jump off a building without his web-spinners than let that happen.

There were also rumours of a clandestine agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. (as if the United States needed _more_ secret agencies, Peter had scoffed to himself) sniffing around Spider’s case. So far, the FBI had managed to keep the shadowy agency at bay, but Peter knew it was only a matter of time before S.H.I.E.L.D. decided get involved. The only trails (which ran cold) Peter had of this secret agency were from emails on the FBI’s side, a one-way conversation that he couldn’t decipher completely. Peter’s own spyware didn’t even make a dent in the encryption and iron-clad security that was S.H.I.E.L.D. and the thought made Peter nervous. While he most certainly wasn’t the _best_ hacker out there, he was definitely _good_ and something about the shadowy agency set his teeth on edge.

Peter was pulled out of his thoughts as the taxi jerked to a stop and the couple spilled out of the vehicle. Peter kept to the shadows of a nearby rooftop as he watched Roger Serque, cocky heir to a billion-dollar bottling conglomerate that had fifty-year contracts with every major beverage company, spill out of the yellow taxi with a crushing grip on the arm of the street girl. Peter winced against his DSLR’s viewfinder as he watched her being yanked towards a posh hotel in the Upper East Side, carefully snapping photos of the bruising hold. It was clear that the scantily dressed woman was becoming increasingly uncomfortable by the situation, not used to being in this wildly affluent part of town.

Peter knew the reason that Serque was choosing poor street girls over the high-end escorts normally visited by the wealthy was so he could get away with spreading his disease amongst the girls he blamed for his dire situation. It was a clear-cut case of misogyny, of victim blaming and psychosis. The man knew the girls wouldn’t be able to afford the expensive drugs required to live and would most likely suffer the last of their painful days bedridden, with no one to tend to their needs. It made the hairs on Peter’s neck curl at the cruel brutality.

Peter watched as the girl was tugged past a startled concierge standing at the entrance of a brick hotel, the crisply dressed man gawking at the sight, and Peter jerked when he noticed a tattoo on the back of the girl’s exposed shoulder. It was a circular design with a cat-like crest in the centre, a black splotch of colour against her pale white skin.

_One of Louis’ girls,_ Peter thought to himself. _Goddamn the Quebecer bastard._

Peter flipped open his phone, an old burner he used for work, and quickly found the man’s number in his contacts. It always paid to have the local pimps’ numbers on hand.

“Yeah?” A man’s voice came through the tinny speaker, very lightly accented.

“Yo, Louis. Spider here,” Peter answered, voice deepened to disguise himself over the line.

“Ah, mon petit arachnide,” Louis purred. “What do I owe the pleasure of this call? Finally ready to cash in that favour I owe you?”

Peter carefully muffled the sound of his gagging by clearing his throat. “Yeah, man. I’m on a case at the moment. Have a mark that’s spreading AIDS to call girls. He’s just taken one of yours to The Reginal on the Upper East Side.”

Louis was silent for a long while. “You do not usually interfere in your cases, amour,” Louis answered slowly, suspicion clear in his tone.

“It’s a fatal disease without medication, Louis. Very _expensive_ medication. I have no desire to tell you how to run a business, but it seems illogical to let a man murder your girls for a handful of Benjamins,” Peter retorted flippantly.

Peter could almost hear Louis bristling on the other side of the receiver.

“It almost sounds like you are worried, mon cher,” Louis growled. “That bleeding heart of yours will be your fall.”

“Listen, Louis,” Peter sighed. “I’m not telling you in return for another favour. I’m asking because I can’t be responsible for this one. I’ve seen a lot of bad shit in my life and I’ve _let_ a lot of bad shit slide in the name of a job. But this one is… Different. Call her, tell her to come back _immediately_. This is me cashing in my favour.”

Louis hummed irritably in the background. “What does she look like?” He finally asked.

Peter withheld a sigh of relief. “Long black hair in a bun, thin but nice frame, tiny purple tube dress and your crest on her right shoulder. Looks about twenty-five, thirty at most.”

“Jasmin,” Louis growled. “A promising new one. And a good girl, too. Yeah, alright, amour. And don’t count this as cashing in a favour from me, but don’t expect another favour in return. You’ve just saved me a lot of heartache.”

Peter rolled his eyes. No matter how ‘sweet’ Louis may play with his mostly put-on French-Canadian accent (dude had spent more of his life in New York City than his own hometown), he was still a pimp selling the young on sidewalks and couldn’t be bothered to protect his ‘stock’ most of the time, let alone arrange for frequent STD testing. Peter knew Louis often dropped his girls and boys like hotcakes when they came up with diseases, infectious or not. Yet Peter appreciated that Louis was even playing ball with him this time. Still, Peter was going to get the Canadian bastard one day, a fact that both of them were aware of. He just had bigger fish to fry right now.

Peter waited patiently outside the hotel and was rewarded with ‘Jasmin’ stumbling out of the hotel’s front door, Serque nowhere in sight. She was clearly ruffled but didn’t look like she’d gotten further than a cop-up in the elevator, a small smartphone pressed tightly against her face.

“ _Oui, oui je reviens au bar maintenant, Louis_ _,”_ Peter heard Jasmin say exasperatedly, straining even through his super-hearing to catch the words. She clacked down the sidewalk in her tall, cheap heels and ignored the offended looks of the upper class passing her by. “ _Je comprends, oui, merci. Je serai de retour dans une heure. Non, je ne peux pas prendre un taxi, ils sont trop chers ici. Oui, d'accord, Louis. Merci, à bientôt.”_ She then ended the call and began walking faster, teetering on the stilettos but still maintaining a rapid pace.

Peter scowled at the words. While he wasn’t fluent by any means in French, he had taken it for a couple years in high school before he dropped out and knew enough to understand that she was attempting to walk back to Louis’ bar, a good hour-long walk in sneakers, let alone in heels.

Peter waited a few minutes as Jasmin rounded a corner into a small alleyway which cut through into another part of town before dropping down smoothly behind her. His light steps didn’t alert her to his presence and he cleared his throat noisily in the quiet alley.

Jasmin squeaked and whipped around, a small switch blade appearing in her hand from _somewhere_ on her body that Peter didn’t even want to consider.

“Bonsoir,” Peter offered half-heartedly in a terrible accent, words slightly muffled by his mask. “I’m Spider.”

Jasmin blinked at Peter rapidly for a few moments and he realised how much makeup she was wearing, large fake eyelashes weighing down her eyelids. Beyond the thick layer of powder, he could see that she was a natural beauty, all cheekbones and legs.

“Bonsoir,” Jasmin responded slowly, accent thick. “Louis said you warned him about _that man_.” For some reason, she sounded _annoyed_.

“Yes,” Peter answered simply. “And I was wondering if you would be willing to make a statement.”

Jasmin eye twitched at the suggestion. “No, the police do not want to hear from a prostitute about the sins of a wealthy man. They would rather lock me up instead.”

Peter huffed a laugh in cynical agreement, leaning against the wall and trying to look unintimidating. Which was not that difficult, as she was already naturally taller than Peter and even taller in her stilettos, towering over Peter who considered himself an average height.

“It would lend credibility to my investigation if you provide me with a recording,” Peter shrugged, going for nonchalant. “Either a voice recording or one of those documentary styles where your face is shadowed. Just a few questions, nothing difficult. I won’t even ask about your profession; we’ll make it seem like you two met in a bar.”

“America law says you have the right to face your accusers,” Jasmin countered, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

“And if you decide to go to court when you’re called for, that’s your choice. If you decide to withdraw your statement, that would be alright too. But I get the feeling that you would hate yourself if you did nothing,” Peter responded softly. “I can make sure that you’re back at Louis’ bar in an hour, if you want.”

“Will you let me swing with you?” Jasmin asked suddenly and Peter grinned, knowing right then that he’d got her. The webs always fascinated people.

“Of course,” Peter enticed, gesturing for her to come closer. She did confidently, switch blade still held loosely in her hand, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding tight.

“Tsk, you are a small boy,” Jasmin cooed, holding him close.

Peter scowled, thankful that the mask hid his blush. “No, you’re just a freakishly tall woman.”

Jasmin began to laugh, a light sound that filled the air and was so much more pleasant than the fake laugh he had heard from her earlier that night.

“You are a cute little boy,” Jasmin sniggered, before screaming in his ear as he flung out a web at the high ledge of a building and yanked them quickly into the sky. “Cheeky _brat_ ,” she muttered, holding him tight as Peter laughed, arm wrapped protectively around her midriff, and the duo flew silently through the New York City skyline.

* * *

_Present_

That interview been the last time Peter heard from Jasmin. She never responded to court summons, which Peter hadn’t really been expecting anyway, but he had expected her to at least email him. When the weeks went by and he didn’t hear from her, Peter realised that she had probably met her end. It was easier, though, to imagine that the surprisingly clever, witty girl had smartened up and escaped Louis’ claws. But Peter was neither naive enough nor delusional enough to entertain the thought. Street girls, especially the illegally smuggled ones with no family support, very rarely got their happy ending.

Part of Peter considered that maybe Jasmin exchanged information on “The Spider” for a payout, for a better life, which may explain how the hit was called on Peter in the first place. She was one of the very few victims of his jobs that he had spoken to in person. Though she had never seen his face, she would have known that he was following her since picking up Serque, meaning she could give the time and location of his whereabouts for nearly an hour and a half to the highest bidder.

But, more likely, Jasmin was probably picked up by one of Serque’s many bodyguards and bent into talking for nothing other than an unmarked grave.

And this was a big reason why Peter didn’t get the victims involved. Whatever happened to them, it was always better to be able to claim ignorance in court lest his marks try to destroy the victims for being perceived ‘snitches’. When the detectives got around to investigating, then at least some of the victims had the option of witness protection, which Peter would never be able to offer.

Peter sighed and shook himself out of his thoughts, standing and stretching in the now late dusk. The honking traffic crawling by the motel entrance had only gotten busier and he planned on turning in for the night despite the early hour. Tomorrow, he was meeting up with Jones and Aunt May, a fact that relieved Peter immensely. He missed Aunt May dearly. And Jessica Jones, despite calling her Jones all of the time (she _hates_ her first name), had become something of a pseudo older-sister, a protective force that trusts him and he trusts back implicitly. Jones did not give her trust away easily and Peter felt honoured that he had earned it.

Peter doubted that Jones would be out and about in the busy theme park, especially since she was still ‘wanted for questioning’, but Aunt May would definitely be there in front of the Walt Disney Castle. It had once been Peter’s dream to take a photo with Aunt May and Uncle Ben in front of the castle cut-out, a fact that had led to much teasing by Jones when she had found out, and it amazed him that he was going to do it tomorrow.

_Provided Deadpool doesn’t find me in the night_ , Peter mulled cynically. He would later come to regret that thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I don't speak French or Canadian French, so all French dialogue was translated through Google Translate (and while French and Canadian French are different dialects, sadly Google Translate doesn't have an option for that). I also was considering adding an accent to Jasmin's dialogue, but I'm terrible at writing accents and it sincerely annoys me to read phonetic spelling so I'm going to leave that up to you to imagine ;)


	4. Snug as a bug in a rug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter compromises and Wade doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arghghg I'm _so_ sorry for the late post! I don't really have a reason for it that will matter tbh :( 
> 
> Otherwise, though, I hope you enjoy :)

Peter awoke with a sharp inhale. His hands skittered across a mattress, mind disoriented and fingers coming into contact with blankets. And more blankets. And _holy hell how many blankets does this bed have?_ Peter’s neck twinged painfully and he quickly rubbed at the sore muscle, groaning as he realised his throat was raw and tender. He felt at a small swollen bump on his neck and bristled; someone had stuck a needle in his neck. He had been _drugged._

Peter tensed harshly, on edge despite his slowed reflexes. He pushed himself up into a sitting position on the soft mattress then blanched as he realised he was alone in a small bedroom he didn’t recognise, surrounded by wooden crates branded with an unknown Cyrillic language. Peter felt an uneasy feeling weighing down the bottom of his stomach. He would be willing to bet his official salary (so peanuts, really) that whatever filled those crates was very illegal and very much the type of thing that goes _boom_.

Peter blinked angrily at his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in a seedy motel on the outskirts of Anaheim, but this room was nothing like the hotel. Though, it did seem to be competing with the hotel for overall dirtiness and greatest number of sharp objects to get tetanus from. At least he was still in the same clothes he passed out in, his dirty jeans clinging to his hips and thin t-shirt sticking to his chest slightly. Peter’s not sure _what_ he would do if he were in different clothes or, worse, less clothes, but he knows it would be catastrophic.

Peter dropped his head into his heads, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

“So, _Mr Steve Watson,_ ” a deep voice purred through the bedroom.

In the doorway to the bedroom, Peter could make out the frame of the mercenary Deadpool through the dim light, still fully clad in his red suit and leaning comfortably against the doorframe in what Peter assumed the man thought was a casual stance.

“What?” Peter croaked, flabbergasted, as he narrowed his eyes at the unwelcome man.

“Steve, Steven, Stevie, Stevo, Stu? No, you’re not a Steve at all, are you?” The man chuckled, examining what Peter recognised to be his falsified passport.

Peter tensed, hands instinctively wrapping around his wrists to feel for his web spinners. By some miracle, they were still secured around his wrists where he’d left them.

“Oh, none of that, sweetheart,” the mercenary chirped, voice surprising light as he dropped the passport and his right hand rose to loosely clasp one of his katanas over a broad shoulder. “I’ve seen those little trinkets take down a helicopter, which by the way you totally owe me for, so let’s all just calm down and let go of the weapons, m’kay?”

Peter frowned at Deadpool and considered mentioning that he wouldn’t be able to pay off a military helicopter if his life depended on it and he _certainly_ didn’t need his web cartridges in order to kick Deadpool’s ass. Peter got the impression that neither of them had to extend much energy to wreck the grimy apartment, but he was completely exhausted and confused by the whole situation. So he raised his hands slowly, palms facing Deadpool in a soothing manner to buy himself some time.

“Good boy,” Deadpool continued smugly, the lenses of his mask arching and mask tightening in what Peter assumed was a large grin. A flash of annoyance surged through Peter.

“Bite me,” Peter retorted bitterly, voice gravelly from his chemically induced sleep but mind sharpening nonetheless.

Deadpool mockingly purred in a startlingly accurate impression of a cat and bit the air though his mask, teeth clattering together loudly in the small space. “Don’t even tempt me, cutie-pie,” Deadpool teased, arms crossing over his chest and crossing a leg over his other ankle, leaning heavily against the doorframe as he leered at Peter.

“So, what, going to try to assault me or something? ‘Cause I can promise that won’t work out well for you, unless you like the idea of spontaneous castrations,” Peter threatened coldly, hand griping around the blankets pooled around his waist as he checked for an exit through his peripheral vision. Peter had never been one to beat around the bush and nerves always made him brutally upfront.

Deadpool startled in surprise before huffing out a laugh. “I’m not that kind of man, baby boy,” he hummed, suddenly swooning with his back against the doorframe as he held the back of a hand against his forehead. “I get all sorts of wet for consent,” he elaborated in a rather fantastic impression of a Southern Bell accent, punctuating the words by fanning himself with a hand.

“Ew,” Peter muttered, relaxing marginally. While he didn’t trust this mercenary as far as he could throw him, he seemed like the type to be open with his intentions, insidious or not. But the man hadn’t come any further into the room like he was a vampire who needed an invitation to cross the threshold and Peter was grateful for the consideration.

Just as Peter finished that thought, Deadpool launched through the air and landed with an _oomph!_ on the bed next to Peter, who panicked and shot out of the bed.

A large, leather covered hand grabbed Peter’s ankle as he attempted to stick to the ceiling and it yanked him back down with brutal strength. Peter squawked as his sticky fingers broke a piece of plaster from the ceiling as he was pulled back, the thin chunk of ceiling coming back down with him as he was suddenly encased in a bear hug.

“Mmm mhm mm!” Deadpool hummed in pleasure, rubbing his face against the back of Peter’s head like a cat.

“What-what-you –“ Peter began to splutter, realising he was being _little spooned goddammit_ and tried to squirm out of the man’s massive forearms. His right side lay firmly pressed into the squishy mattress as a broad, solid frame curled around his back.

“Ooh, you are just the _cutest!_ ” Deadpool screamed in Peter’s ear, making the smaller man flinch at the volume. “Like a grumpy puddy-tat that loves cuddles but doesn’t know how to ask for them! Oh my Thor, I know, Yellow. Keeping this one,” Deadpool continued on happily, confusing the hell out of Peter with the non sequiturs as he was unwillingly cuddled.

Peter decided to briefly ignore the weirdness going on behind him because, for all of Deadpool’s faults, Peter’s spidey senses weren’t freaking out and he actually seemed… Harmless? Peter then rolled his eyes at the assessment ( _sure, call the immortal mercenary ‘harmless’,_ he thought to himself scathingly) and instead focused on shaking his hand rapidly, trying to dislodge the plasterboard still stuck to his left hand and failing miserably. With the speed of a striking viper, Peter’s wrist was grabbed roughly by one of the hands around him.

“The fuck?” Deadpool asked sharply, inspecting the tips of Peter’s skin glued to the chunk of ceiling.

“It’s a defence mechanism,” Peter muttered, furious at himself for _blushing_ as if this were more embarrassing than being held in a massive bear hug by a _man who was trying to murder him!_

“So you really are a little spider bug, ain’tcha?” Deadpool squealed, though thankfully at a much lower volume than before.

“Arachnid, not bug,” Peter correctly irritably. “Fucking American school system.”

“Oh, I’m Canadian, sweetcheeks!” Deadpool crowed. “And I _know_ it’s arachnid. Did you also know ticks are in the arachnid family? Take that, YOU-ESS-EH! CANA-DEH FOR THE WIN!” Deadpool shouted in Peter’s ear.

Peter turned his head over his left shoulder to stare at the masked man in disbelief, ears still ringing at the sheer _volume_ of this man’s voice.

“What?” Deadpool asked sharply, suddenly timid in the face of Peter’s bewildered expression.

“You are the weirdest person I have ever met,” Peter answered honestly, still recovering from the whiplash of their conversation. “Who attempts to murder someone, then drug and kidnap them in the night, and then big spoon them? What the fuck are you getting at, man?”

Deadpool withdrew his right arm from under Peter and propped his elbow on the bed, hand cradling his masked chin as he inspected the small man. Peter could feel the heat of the man’s eyes even through the expressive mask and he shifted uncomfortably, rolling onto his back. The man’s left arm remained wrapped around Peter’s midriff even as he shifted, a reminder that he wouldn’t be able to escape.

Despite the bizarre situation, somehow Peter found himself instinctively relaxing; his spider senses weren’t tingling warningly or, actually, at all. Peter hadn’t experienced this much physical touch in… Years, really. Not since Uncle Ben. After the incident, Peter kept himself a minimum of three feet from people at all times, even Aunt May. The last few years, it felt like physical contact _burned_. But, despite this fact, Peter found himself looking up into the masked face of a vigilante murderer, large frame towering over him, and he wasn’t freaking out.

_Maybe it’s shock?_ Peter wondered.

The piece of plaster unhooked from his fingertips suddenly and Peter felt a strangled noise catch in the back of his throat as it dropped to the bed. A deep heat spread over his face and down his neck and Peter nearly moaned in mortification at the thought of the blistering blush that was surely covering his features.

“Defence mechanism, eh?” Deadpool quipped, breaking the peaceful moment with his suffocatingly smug tone. “Does that mean I’ve passed the Spidey Test? If so, please feel free to call me Wade, or Sir when naked.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Peter scowled, pushing the powdery ceiling chunk off the side of the bed. Peter sat up quickly and pointedly ignored the man next to him as he pushed the blankets away from him, wiggling from out under the large bicep on his stomach as he scooted towards the edge of the bed. Peter decided he was going to simply walk himself out of this surreal situation and go far, far, _far_ away.

_God, this must be how Malcom feels when Jones and I mess with his head,_ Peter thought to himself with sudden empathy.

“Such a potty mouth!” Deadpool squealed in delight, hands clapping around his cheeks. “Wash your mouth out with soap, young man!” Deadpool quickly rolled over onto his stomach, chin cradled in his hands and feet rocking back and forth, almost disarmingly innocent.

Peter flinched as he realised he could smell himself and inhaled an overwhelming stench of body odour. “Oh good god, I might actually need a bar of soap,” Peter muttered to himself, trying to remember the last time he’d showered.

Before he could react, Peter was suddenly being pushed towards an open door with fierce strength, a towel shoved into his flailing arms. Peter was then propelled into a filthy bathroom and the door slammed behind him, Deadpool still in the bedroom.

Peter stared at the door in shock, still trying to comprehend what, exactly, had just happened.

“Take a shower, darling! Mummy’s makin’ pancakes!” Deadpool cooed through the closed door before stomping away loudly ( _pointedly_ , Peter’s mind commented).

Peter’s mouth opened and closed a couple times before he slumped against a grimy tiled wall in defeat. _Shower, pancakes, then run away_ , he thought to himself firmly.

* * *

Pancakes after a blissfully hot shower turned out to be a real thing. Literally, Deadpool had made Peter _pancakes_. With maple syrup. _Real syrup_ , Peter thought to himself in a daze as warm syrup was drizzled out of a small saucer from the stove.

“Pirated syrup, too,” Deadpool chirped excitably and Peter realised with a blush that he had spoken aloud. “None of that regulated shit!”

Peter stared at Deadpool in blank confusion for a moment, both men stock still in the dim light of the filthy apartment, before Deadpool gasped in exaggerated horror.

“Do you _not_ know of the Quebec Maple Syrup Producers?” Deadpool asked in such a scandalised tone that Peter, a genius with an IQ rivalling perhaps Tony Stark himself, actually felt intellectually inadequate for a moment.

“No?” Peter asked, perhaps a bit too mortified that he didn’t know who the Quebec Maple Syrup Producers were and not even sure if he should care.

This, oddly enough, led to Deadpool explaining the rather surprisingly complicated ins-and-outs of the highly regulated Canadian maple syrup market and unwittingly displaying to Peter, who found himself listening silently despite his initial reservations, that Deadpool was actually alarmingly intelligent. Maybe, possibly even genius intelligent, if a little twisted.

Somehow, a stern lecture on the QMSP turned into Peter laying on a moth-eaten couch with Deadpool sitting on the floor by his feet, back leaning against the edge of the cushions, and watching a dramatic Netflix documentary about a multi-million dollar syrup heist in Quebec (movie pirated as well – _“Copyright infringement is a scam to keep the masses poor and enforce reliance on the monetary system for basic entertainment and to spend hard-earned dollars, Spidey. You don’t see rich people paying for shit; like me, for example”_ – Peter was beginning to sense a theme). Of course, each line of the movie was punctuated by Deadpool’s colourful commentary, scorning ‘The Man’ and occasionally going off on a one-way tangent with ‘Yellow’ and ‘White’.

Peter wasn’t sure what on Earth was going on but, for the first time in a long time, he felt himself fully relax. Perhaps it was the soothing background noise of the film, or a stomach full of surprisingly delicious pancakes, or the humorous ridiculousness of Deadpool’s commentary. Or hell, he could still be trying to metabolise whatever drugs Deadpool thought necessary to inject him with.

Hell, maybe Peter was still passed out in bed at the motel; this whole situation seemed like a bizarre fever dream anyway. But, either way, Peter felt himself slowly drift off into sleep with a hand behind his neck, pillowing his head.

_Shower, pancakes, run away,_ Peter thought to himself briefly as he floated on the edge of sleep. _Okay, maybe shower, pancakes, nap_ , _and_ then _run away_ , Peter compromised, his last thought before he fell into a fitful rest.

* * *

Wade wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing, but his instincts (and Yellow) insisted he was doing the right thing so he went along with it. White, on the other hand, was being all kinds of cynical and bitchy about the whole thing. _Classic White_ , Wade thought to himself with a lopsided smirk.

So maybe he kidnapped a possibly twenty year old mutant with wristbands that flung _webs_ and could take down a reinforced X-Man chopper (and maybe that endeared Wade to the kid a little more than it should, but whatever) and took him home, despite the whining of “morals” and “ethics” and “Wade you really shouldn’t kidnap people you’ve drugged, that’s asking for all kinds of lawsuits” from Wolverine. _Psh_ , like Logan wasn’t a big ol’ pile of ethical conundrums. But Logan still came to pick him up with _another_ chopper ( _(When are these idiots going to learn?) White commented breezily_ ) and dropped Wade and the kid off at his L.A. safehouse after a brief fight perhaps because it was easier to do so than try to rationalise with a Deadpool that was dead-set on a plan.

And okay, _alright_ , maybe he shouldn’t have put the kid in his bed to rest because people don’t normally stay knocked out for more than ten hours from that small a of dose of sedatives unless they have severe brain trauma or fallen into a coma or something (or unless it was in movies, in which people seemed to remain knocked out like Sleeping Beauty until the exact moment it suited the film to wake them up). But the cuts and bruises on the kid’s skin from their first fight had already completely healed, a sign of super-healing, and Wade shrugged.

And jeez, he hadn’t meant to make his mark pancakes but he could pin down the small man’s frame with _one arm_ despite the kid’s deceiving mutant strength and Wade couldn’t help the mothering instincts, really. Especially since he was so very mortified about letting his guard down ([ _Sticky fingers, that’s pretty cute], Yellow had even mentioned slyly)._ Then Wade started talking and normally he doesn’t ever stop until someone stops him but the kid _doesn’t_ stop him and even seemed to be _relaxing_ under the onslaught of noise.

And then Wade was rapidly running out of things to talk about ( _(That’s a first) White commented dryly_ – Wade’s gettin’ real fuckin’ tired of White’s quips) because no one ever lets him go on this much so he put on a movie and kept talking and talking and _talking_. Until the credits rolled and he looked up to make sure the kid was still there ‘cause he hadn’t spoken a word in hours and the kid was napping. _Napping_. In Wade’s flat, surrounded by an actual legit armoury of illegally gained (and mostly illegal to own) weapons, with Wade sitting on the floor in front of him like some kind of household pet. No one _ever_ naps around Wade.

Wade did not want to think about that so he very carefully deposited the kid back onto his bed to rest, a little worried that those sedatives might still be clogging up his wee spidey system. Wade doesn’t know what a correct dosage is and maybe he shouldn’t be using drugs if he’s this reckless and thank _god_ he never became an anaesthetist, but he had _really_ wanted to try his new flute-dart poison-thing that he picked up in Ecuador, complete with a set of tranqs featuring fluffy pink tails.

And, really, the kid is just _so damn cute_ snuggled up in those blankets and Wade realised from the dark bags under his eyes that the kid might just be exhausted.

Wade shook himself from his thoughts, figuring it was a bit weird to be standing outside the bedroom while staring at the kid sleep ( _(Ew, brah. Rein it in, man) Yellow scorned,_ which made Wade realise that if even Yellow was commenting on it, he’d crossed a line somewhere) and he returned to his living room to collapse onto his couch, sinking deep into thought.

And, honestly, the kid isn’t really a kid because ‘Spider’ was rumoured to have been active for _at least_ five years when he started taunting the local police districts by showing up their best detectives. And, what, that would make the kid at least twenty? Or legal, at the bare minimum, which makes Wade feel less like a creep and more like a friendly neighbourhood pal helping out another mutant.

Wade is sincerely impressed, though, that the man in his bed has already made a formidable name for himself in the intel game. Alias Investigations had been a minor bleep on Wade’s radar wholly due to the fiery super-strong mutant at the helm, Jessica Jones, but then it was clear looking back exactly when Spider emerged onto the scene as the quality of work shot skywards, which no one had really expected from the alcoholic private eye.

Even Weasel commented a couple times that he was beginning to buy intel from the east coast firm if he was too lazy to do his own background checks as the research was guaranteed to be water-tight. This was way before Spider got his very own street-name, a name that had only really popped up in the last six months or so.

And when Wade saw that ad on _Ernie’s Menagerie_ , he couldn’t help himself. After all, he was fascinated by the prospect of hunting down a wee spider babe that had managed to evade not only the local police and warring mobs, but also was rumoured to have outdone the FBI and kept his nose clean of S.H.E.I.L.D. _and_ X-Men _,_ an ability that very few active mutants enjoyed.

And after speaking to that posh bastard who made the hit, it was an easy story to believe.

Spider, renowned intel gatherer, making up information to suit his personal grudges. Hey, the guy was infamous for his take-down of the upper crust, wealthy scum. Perhaps this man had offended Spider once upon a time and now he was getting his own? When Wade thinks back on it, he feels a little dumb for having gobbled up the story so readily. But Wade’s been in the game for a long time and he’s come to expect worse so he didn’t bother to give it a second thought after negotiating a _wild_ amount of money for the kid’s head.

As he sat in the middle of his rotten couch, legs spread wide in his favourite relaxed position, Wade’s phone went off to the chorus of _Funkytown_. He flipped open the ancient cell with his thumb and drawled, “Yeeeeellow?”

“ _Where the fuck is he, you mutant piece of shit?”_ A woman’s voice screamed, making Wade flinch and yank the phone away from his face as he wiggled a gloved finger into his ringing ear.

“Hello, _Jessica,_ ” Wade intoned deeply, using that same voice that used to really piss Francis off before Wade shot his brains out the back of his skull. “Is this where you give me the speech from _Taken_? Always have wanted to work it into a conversation. Let me guess: _You have a very particular set of skills_?” Wade asked in a rasping voice.

“ _I will rip you limb from limb and then keep those miserable bits in jars of formaldehyde around my house and laugh as your stupid regenerative skills try desperately to recreate a dozen tiny Deadpools and instead pickle,”_ the woman answered scathingly. “ _Then I’ll fucking steal the Eternal Fire from fucking Asgard and chuck your worthless body parts onto it and then watch you regenerate and burn over and over for eternity.”_

“Ooooh!” Wade squealed. “Eight points for creativity from the judges! Two points deducted because, EL-OH-EL, good luck managing that.”

“ _I said. Where. Is. He?_ ” The woman repeated, voice now low and reverberating with dark intentions.

“In my bed, honey bun, makin’ himself a big ol’ nest with my fluffiest blankets. Like an adorable little tactilely sensitive snug bug in a rug,” Wade drawled, grinning wide.

“ _You are a disgusting piece of shit,”_ the woman stated coldly.

“And now we’ve come in a full circle,” Wade sighed, bouncing his leg as the insults began to repeat. “Listen, the hit’s off, I’m not trying to kill him, he’s with me in L.A. at a safehouse. So chill the fuck out, chickadee, we’ve all moved on. Besides, I think we should all now focus on the fact that if I don’t hand over your baby-bro’s head in a bag to my client in a week’s time, we’re gonna have a problem ‘cause he’s just gonna ask someone else to finish the hit.”

“ _I’m not joking, Wade fucking Wilson. Hand him over or we’re going to have a_ real _problem_ ,” the woman emphasised.

Wade sat up, suddenly intrigued. “Oh, the plot _thickens_ ,” Wade gasped. “How does she know my name? How does she _do it_? How does she _have it all?_ ”

“ _Don’t make me call Professor X on your ass. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have a very long, very_ interesting _conversation with me about you.”_

Wade laughed. “Honey, if we could afford Professor X, he would have been in the first two movies.”

“ _What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy psycho?”_ The woman snarled.

At this, Wade felt himself get a little peeved. A little irritated. Perhaps… Dare he say it, a little _annoyed._

[What the fuck did she just call us?] Yellow asked in a calm voice that normally meant things in the near vicinity were about to catch on fire.

(Let’s all just take a deep breath) White stated hurriedly.

[Yeah, sure, let’s prove the lady’s point by having a multi-voice conversation about this] Yellow deadpanned.

When Yellow became the voice of reason, Wade knew things were going to go south very, _very_ fast.

“Fine, come pick him up,” Wade said after a beat of silence.

A quiet, static filled line met his ear.

“ _What’s the catch?”_ The woman asked at last.

“Oh, no. No catch,” Wade responded, dead serious and using his upmost pleasant Customer Service voice. “Of course, though, you’ll have to go through me. Your super strength is great and all but I seriously doubt you’ll last five seconds in a fight against me. So please, make my day, darling. Come by and pick him up. I’ll text you the address now.”

Wade lowered his phone and did just that, pondering momentarily if Blind Al upstairs would mind if he obliterated their small two storey residential building in a fight with an insane super-strong mutant sporting a giant, neon-bright big sister complex the size of the Vegas welcome sign.

[ _Nah_ ,] Yellow encouraged, [The ol’ wrinkle-bag would probably cream herself over all the action.]

“ _You’re such a fucking dickhead. I’m speaking to Weasel,”_ the woman responded as he heard her phone _bing!_ with his text.

“Awww _mom,_ don’t go tattling on me to _Weasel_!” Wade whined mockingly. “Whatever will I do? Wait – hold up,” Wade hurried to say before Jessica cut off the line. “What’s his name? ‘Cause I seriously don’t buy it that his name is _Steve_. Like, cute name and all. No problems against it. But he does _not_ look like a Steve.”

A dial tone met his ear and Wade frowned down at the flip phone.

(Well, that’s just rude) White said to no one in particular.


End file.
